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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29638218">We Break Like Waves</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrowningByDegrees/pseuds/DrowningByDegrees'>DrowningByDegrees</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Established Relationship, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Serious Injuries, This probably isn't how a honeymoon is supposed to go</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 05:56:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,469</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29638218</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrowningByDegrees/pseuds/DrowningByDegrees</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>For three days, they are happy. It matters less that Geralt struggles to put to words what Jaskier means to him when it’s all right there, neatly conveyed in the simple band wrapped around the bard’s finger. Jaskier holds his hand out to admire it for what must be the hundredth time, smiling as the candlelight catches facets of the solitary ruby set in gold. </i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>What begins as a long overdue honeymoon ends, as things so often do in Geralt's life, in disaster.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>173</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>GRB2020 Team Works</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>We Break Like Waves</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/merpancake/gifts">merpancake</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thank you so much to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/merpancake/pseuds/merpancake">merpancake</a> for the lovely artwork this fic is written to go with! </p>
<p>Thank you also to the delightful <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/CousinCecily">CousinCecily</a> for the betaing and cheerleading on this! &lt;3</p>
<p>There is one tag I left out of the tags because it would be a spoiler, but I want to make absolutely certain that everyone has the agency to engage with potentially difficult subject matter in the way they want or don't want to. I've included said spoiler in the footnotes for anyone who would feel better knowing exactly what they're walking into.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>For three days, they are happy. It matters less that Geralt struggles to put to words what Jaskier means to him when it’s all right there, neatly conveyed in the simple band wrapped around the bard’s finger. Jaskier holds his hand out to admire it for what must be the hundredth time, smiling as the candlelight catches facets of the solitary ruby set in gold. </p>
<p>“It’s not going to disappear just because you look away for a minute,” Geralt teases, busying himself with unpacking. There’s usually no point, but they mean to be here a while. </p>
<p>“I’m<em> savoring</em> it.” Jaskier crinkles his nose, a conspiratorial smile creeping across his lips. “Careful, witcher. Between the wedding and running off to the coast with me, I might start thinking you’re some kind of hopeless romantic after all.” </p>
<p>“It’s not romantic,” Geralt immediately protests. He shifts uncomfortably where he stands and pretends he’s not committing Jaskier’s fond expression to memory. It’s been ages since the mountain, but the guilt still gets him sometimes. “I didn’t… I <em>don’t</em> want you to ever wonder how I feel about you.” </p>
<p>“‘Not romantic’ he says. <em>That’s</em> not romantic? I’m really starting to wonder if you know the meaning of the word.” All at once, Jaskier is very close, ring forgotten in favor of wrapping his arms around Geralt, leaning close enough to kiss the witcher’s cheek. “But it’s probably some kind of bad luck to argue on one’s honeymoon, so just this once I’ll pretend to agree with you.” </p>
<p>Huffing out a laugh, Geralt turns his head to catch Jaskier’s lips against his own. It’s slow, lingering, full of promise. “We could just change the subject entirely.” </p>
<p>Jaskier’s fingers slide just a bit beneath Geralt’s armor to curl in the fabric of his shirt. Geralt abandons Jaskier’s mouth in favor of mapping out the curve of his jaw, the hollow of his throat. He feels as much as hears Jaskier’s hum of agreement. “I like the way you think.”</p>
<p>Geralt is helpless but to chase after the pleasing little hitch to Jaskier’s breathing. Nosing under the collar of the bard’s chemise, he nips at the enticing divot where the bard’s neck and shoulder meet. </p>
<p>Whatever sound Jaskier might have made is lost in commotion somewhere below in the street. Something thunders through the village with so much force that the building trembles beneath their feet. Outside, a woman screams. </p>
<p>The threat of a monster. The urgency of a fight. It’s hardly a new thing after all these years and they pull apart and spring into action with practiced ease. When he turns his head in search of where he’d set his weapons aside, Jaskier is already holding out the silver sword. Geralt rushes out the door and down the stairs to the entrance of the inn, flinging open the door to find the source of all the noise. </p>
<p><em>Fiend</em>. Odd, but not completely unheard of. The village is on the edge of a forest sure, but some idiot must have antagonized it for it to venture into town. The why doesn’t matter though because it’s bearing down on a boy who is frozen, hypnotized most likely. He’s still as stone, clutching a little wooden bow like a security blanket. </p>
<p>Without a second’s hesitation, Geralt runs for the child, sweeping him out of the way just in time and sending them both sprawling to the dirt. He can’t look to make sure the boy is alright, his trajectory forcing him to roll out of the way of the fiend’s attack. In a flurry of motion Geralt rises to swing at the creature, but his sword thumps down against the fiend’s skull more like a hammer than a blade. </p>
<p>The fiend swipes at him as it runs, and an antler catches him in the stomach, half underneath his breastplate, sending him stumbling to the ground. By the time Geralt is even beginning to get upright, it’s already turned on its heel to charge at him again. He staggers to his feet and…</p>
<p>And it all runs together after that. The world distills down to strange details. Jaskier’s voice, urgent and far too close, the words garbled like Geralt is underwater. The jarring ache from his rib cage to his hips every time he has to duck or dodge. The screech of the fiend when Geralt finally drives his sword home. And then silence. Unnatural, oppressive silence. </p>
<p>“Fuck. <em>Geralt</em>,” Jaskier pants, sounding eerily choked off and panicky in a way that is uncomfortably reminiscent of their incident with the djinn. Dread floods in, sinking right down to the marrow of Geralt’s bones before he’s even finished turning around. He can smell the distress, terror rolling off Jaskier in waves. </p>
<p>Geralt has always suspected they were going to end in tragedy one way or another, but he thought he had more <em>time</em>. The arrow sticking out of Jaskier’s chest says otherwise. Arrow? The child, Geralt assumes, probably trying to help. Good intentions do nothing to ward off the consequences though.</p>
<p>Jaskier’s gaze is already a little bit glassy, and though Geralt runs to catch the bard against his chest he knows it’s already too late. Jaskier’s bright blue doublet is soaking through around the arrow, too quickly to be anything other than an artery. All Geralt can do is give Jaskier a softer place to land.</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>The scent of fear is overwhelming, only barely crowded out by the coppery tang of blood smeared across Geralt’s gloves and soaking into Jaskier’s clothes. But it’s the shaking of Jaskier’s voice that promises to haunt the witcher. “Stay with me. Please, <em>please</em> stay with me.”</p>
<p>“I’m not going anywhere. I’ve got you,” Geralt promises, easing them to the ground. His own injury doesn’t even hurt anymore, and that should be a gift, but Geralt would gladly endure the pain a thousand times over to undo what he’s up against now. Anything not to be so helpless. </p>
<p>“Just hold on. <em>Please</em>,” Jaskier rambles like he hasn’t heard Geralt at all. “It can’t end like this.” </p>
<p>“It won’t,” Geralt lies, bowing his head to press a kiss to Jaskier’s forehead. Beyond where they’re sitting, the road is turning red, and Geralt squeezes his eyes shut against the evidence of all he’s losing. “Of course it won’t.”</p>
<p>He cannot cry out his grief when Jaskier’s heartbeat grows more sluggish, stuttering to an eventual stop. There’s none of the catharsis of a tearful goodbye. Just ragged, choked off breaths as he curls in around Jaskier’s still body. </p>
<p><em>Come back. Come back. Come back.</em> Even Geralt’s own mind offers no reprieve, giving him Jaskier’s voice in place of his own. It’s a foolish plea. </p>
<p>There is no coming back from this.</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>He’s not in the street anymore. He wakes alone in a bed, but leaving aside the heartache, it’s still not a pleasant thing. Not when there’s a wildfire licking across the width of his abdomen, the echoes of it stretching all the way to his fingertips. Geralt forces himself to take slow, steady breaths but it still feels like far too long before he can pry his eyes open. </p>
<p>Not that it tells him anything. The ceiling has about as much character as any other, the same flat boards as any hut in any of the hundreds of villages he’s been to. Before he can explore any further, a voice yanks all his attention in a different direction. </p>
<p>“Geralt? You’re awake! Oh thank fuck. I thought you were really done for this time.” Geralt’s head jerks to the side to find Jaskier sitting in a chair near the bed. Only, there’s no comfort here. Only grief. It <em>cannot</em> be Jaskier, cannot be because… because. </p>
<p>The sick feeling curling in the pit of his stomach as he listened to Jaskier’s heartbeat fade to nothing makes itself known all over again. The phantom weight of the bard’s body in his arms haunts Geralt as surely as any ghost he’s ever encountered. The witcher cannot so much as close his eyes without conjuring the horrifying memory of the road turning red and muddy-</p>
<p>“Who the fuck are you?” Geralt growls at the imposter, forcing himself upright heedless of the agony it elicits. What the hell did they <em>do</em> to him?</p>
<p>“Oh no, love. You really shouldn’t do that. You're in baaaad shape.” Not-Jaskier has his hands out already, as if Geralt’s comfort matters to him. “You were nearly- Hold on. Who- Geralt, it’s <em>me</em>. Jaskier. You know, world famous bard. Married to this witcher who is currently being… whatever you’re being?”</p>
<p>Claws dig into the open wound of Jaskier’s absence with every word. Whoever this is sounds so much like him, Geralt can barely stand it. He roughly swats away the imposter’s hands, grief escaping in a furious outburst tempered only by how much pain he’s in. “Quit pretending to be him!”  </p>
<p>“You’re not making any sense,” Not-Jaskier raises his voice right back. Only then his face does a number of strange and complicated things, sliding to a stop on something that might be intended as sympathetic. Geralt could almost buy it, almost <em>wants</em> to when the imposter’s tone softens along with his expression. “Just talk to me. What could possibly have you so convinced I’m not me?”</p>
<p>It’s the wrong question, or maybe the right one depending on how one chooses to look at it. It’s a terrible reminder of how Jaskier had felt bleeding out in his arms, and motivation enough to have Geralt lurching to his feet with an angry snarl. “Because he’s <em>dead</em>.”</p>
<p>“What? That is <em>definitely</em> not a thing that happened.” The imposter backs up, not in retreat exactly, but just barely out of reach. “Why do you think I’m dead?” </p>
<p>Geralt’s body threatens revolt with each moment he stands there. Knowing he’s probably outmatched in his current condition, Geralt forces himself to answer, waiting for the right opening. “Because I was there.”</p>
<p>“Geralt. You’ve been out cold for almost three days. The only place <em>you’ve</em> been is in that damned bed. Annnnnd okay. That is not a ‘yes I believe you, Jaskier’ face.” The approximation of Jaskier’s responses is a convincing one, from the frantic rambling to the emphatic hand gestures. “But come on. Who else would I even be?” </p>
<p>“You tell me,” Geralt snaps back, frustrated by his own inability to just end this. He subtly tests taking a step, but even the incremental shuffle is excruciating. </p>
<p>“I <em>am</em> telling you. I don’t know how else to… Oh! I’ve got it. You just… stop looking all menacing and sit <em>down</em>, would you?” Geralt watches the imposter look around the room, watches their every move, so he sees when their attention settles on something in the corner. <em>Geralt’s sword</em>. </p>
<p>Much as he hates to admit it, in his current state it’s entirely likely a doppler with a sword could be a match for him. It’s enough to spur Geralt into action despite the way he can feel it tearing at what he thinks might be stitches. The fake seems to catch on and ducks towards the sword and Geralt pursues. Sort of. </p>
<p>Nothing happens very gracefully, or effectively for that matter. The imposter grabs the sword and Geralt grabs him and both of them end up in a heap in the corner when all is said and done. He’s definitely torn something, because a sharp pain erupts across his stomach when he lands on his knees, and though Geralt doesn’t look he can feel the bandaging he’s still wrapped in soaking through. </p>
<p>Caught between Geralt and the wall, the imposter doesn’t even have the decency to look afraid. They’ve both got a hand on the hilt of the sword, but Geralt’s quarry does something just strange and unexpected enough that the witcher doesn’t stop him. He bares his neck so that the flat of the blade rests against his throat. “Silver for monsters, right?” </p>
<p>Silver for monsters. Jaskier doesn’t respond to the metal against his skin in the slightest. It could be that this isn’t a doppler at all, but Geralt’s medallion dangles between them, as still as it would be if the person Geralt caught were entirely… human. </p>
<p>Forcing himself to take a breath, Geralt assesses what he knows. He’s hurt far worse than he remembers. The things Jaskier said, a little nonsensical at the time, make far more sense if Geralt was the one in danger of dying. And… well, fiends do hypnotize their prey, so it’s not entirely outside the realm of possibility that there were lingering effects. All of which leads Geralt very hesitantly to the same conclusion. “Jaskier?”</p>
<p>That particular revelation is an overwhelming one, enough that Geralt doesn’t resist when Jaskier eases the sword out of his hand to set aside. He’s so lost in trying to figure out where his memory ends and illusion begins that he doesn’t even register he’s been steered into a more comfortable position until Jaskier’s arms are around him. </p>
<p>The embrace is like breaking a dam. Geralt finds, much to his dismay, that he’s too unraveled to hold much of anything in check. When he responds, it’s all at once, his arms squeezing too tightly to be remotely comfortable, his face pressing against the crook of Jaskier’s neck. </p>
<p>“Must’ve been some nightmare,” Jaskier murmurs. Geralt knows he’ll probably be ashamed of it later, but for the moment he lets Jaskier drag a hand soothingly up and down his back. Without the adrenaline to drive him, Geralt’s body screams in protest, but he can’t bring himself to let go. </p>
<p>“I thought I lost you,” is all the answer Geralt manages, fingers curling in the loose fabric of Jaskier’s chemise. In a moment of weakness, he sags a little where he’s sitting when Jaskier’s fingers find their way to card through his hair. </p>
<p>“That makes two of us. Your insides were trying really<em> very </em>hard to be on the outside.” Jaskier laughs, sort of, but it’s wet and unconvincing. It’s always been easy to write off Jaskier worrying over him before. He’s a witcher. Mortal danger comes with the territory. But now, with even Jaskier’s solid presence and steady heartbeat not enough to put Geralt at ease, he thinks he understands a little better. “But I'm here. You're here. No one is dead. Scratch that. No one but the fiend who is most definitely dead. Good job."</p>
<p>It’s a long time before the relief of Jaskier alive and well in his arms is crowded out by how truly wretched Geralt feels otherwise. He grits his teeth to stifle the pained whimper that threatens when he moves just a bit the wrong way, but Jaskier tenses like he’s noticed anyway. The bard withdraws just enough to look Geralt in the eye. Despite the smile tugging at his lips, Jaskier’s expression is still tight with worry. “Now that we've established that I’m really me will you <em>please</em> go back to bed?”</p>
<p>“I’m fine.” The answer is automatic. Geralt has never lived a life where he can afford to be anything else, after all. </p>
<p>“You're fine. <em>Really</em>? Your attempt at an attack was basically just strategically falling on me. And don’t get me wrong, if you’re going to wake up convinced I’m a fraud I’d much rather it be when you can’t do anything about it, but <em>honestly</em> Geralt.” Jaskier rambles on, a comforting sound despite the lecture Geralt is currently getting. </p>
<p>“Lost my balance,” he protests gruffly. Geralt tries to prove his point by getting up of his own accord, but it’s a nonstarter. </p>
<p>“Yeah, and I've suddenly decided to quit writing songs and become a tailor.” Jaskier rests a hand on Geralt’s shoulder in an effort to stop him. There’s a complaint lingering on his lips, but it’s silenced by the faint tremor of Jaskier’s breathing. “It was days ago and you're still bleeding through the bandages. You know how bad it had to be for that. For once in your life, stop being stubborn and let me help.”</p>
<p>“I let you help all the time,” Geralt points out, more for the sake of arguing than anything. It’s a welcome return to normalcy.</p>
<p>“Well, then this shouldn’t be a problem, now should it?” Jaskier raises an eyebrow at Geralt like this is any other playful squabble. </p>
<p>They do make it back to the bed eventually. The slash across his stomach is jagged and gruesome, but more healed up than he’d feared. Jaskier is halfway through winding fresh bandages around it when he catches the bard grimacing. Geralt kicks himself for not thinking to ask sooner. “How’s your shoulder?” </p>
<p>“My shoulder?” Jaskier’s brows knit comically for a moment and then his eyes go wide in understanding. “Oh! Fine. Mae has this salve that works wonders on pulled muscles. It barely hurts at all.” </p>
<p>Geralt is certain he understands all of those words individually. Maybe he’d imagined Jaskier getting hurt entirely. “You didn’t get shot.”</p>
<p>“By the fiend?” Jaskier laughs, a welcome sound despite Geralt’s confusion. “It didn’t look like it was planning to take up marksmanship.” </p>
<p>Why had he been so sure about that? Geralt pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to focus until he finally remembers. “The kid.”</p>
<p>“Mae’s little boy? No. I just strained it trying to pull you out of the damned street.” Jaskier shakes his head, fussing with the pillows and steering Geralt to recline against them. “I’m making an active choice here not to be offended that you thought I was done in by a child with a toy, Geralt.” </p>
<p>Now that Jaskier’s said it out loud, it does sound a bit ridiculous. The memory lingers anyway. Knowing it’s false doesn’t make it any less visceral. There’s not room on the bed for two, but Jaskier absently takes Geralt’s hand, thumb sliding across the witcher’s knuckles. He could maybe sleep like this, he thinks, the contact a tether reminding him that none of it was real.</p>
<p>“Only you, Geralt.” Geralt doesn’t realize how long the silence lingers between them until Jaskier breaks it. </p>
<p>“Only me what?”</p>
<p>Jaskier lifts Geralt’s hand, pressing a kiss against his fingers. “Only you could be literally dying and manage to hallucinate you’d failed someone else.”</p>
<p>“It’s not like I picked it.” Geralt sighs and opens his eyes, listlessly tracing the lines of the wood slats overhead with his gaze. “I suppose this puts a damper on things.”</p>
<p>Jaskier has the audacity to laugh. It’s the best thing Geralt thinks he’s ever heard. “Are you kidding? I've more or less grown accustomed to someone being in mortal danger all of the time.” </p>
<p>Prone as Jaskier is to hyperbole, he isn’t wrong about this. Were he sitting upright, Geralt might bow his head, but instead, he only turns it away. “Sorry.”</p>
<p>“Hush. I know who I married.” Jaskier smiles and dips down low enough to kiss Geralt’s forehead. It’s intimate, domestic practically. The sort of thing Geralt never thought he’d have. “Lucky for you the coast isn't just a good place to celebrate a union. It's an excellent place to recover from a life threatening injury.” </p>
<p>“It’s not that bad,” Geralt protests, like every movement isn’t a muted sort of agony. </p>
<p>“Were we looking at the same injury?” At first, it’s no different from Jaskier’s usual chiding when he gets hurt, but by the time Geralt turns to look, the bard’s expression falters along with his voice. “If it had been any deeper, I…”</p>
<p>Comfort doesn't come naturally to him and it's maybe for Geralt’s own benefit too when he squeezes Jaskier's hand in his. "I'm still here."</p>
<p>"You're still here," Jaskier agrees in a low murmur. The silence drags out, but eventually Geralt’s reassurance must reach Jaskier, because his lips curl in a teasing smile. “Besides, who said anything about you? I'm told I was mortally wounded.” </p>
<p>“Twit,” Geralt grumbles, but there’s no heat in it.  </p>
<p>“Excuse you. I…” Jaskier huffs audibly. Geralt barely has the energy for it, but he does glance up to see Jaskier looking theatrically affronted about the whole thing. “Actually I can't really argue, but I think it’s on you since you knew that and you married me anyway.” </p>
<p>“No idea why.” He’s so achy that even smiling feels like a great effort, but Geralt tries anyway. </p>
<p>“Rude,” Jaskier grumbles, though it sounds more fond than anything. “I’d <em>hope</em> it's because you love me.”</p>
<p>There’s sunlight through the window, the warm honey glow of late afternoon. It softens Jaskier’s features beautifully, but that’s not what catches Geralt’s eye when he tries to look. It’s the glint of light against metal, Jaskier’s ring reflecting all the reasons whether Geralt voices them or not. </p>
<p>"Yeah." Geralt concedes without much of a fight. He never wants it to be a question again. “I do.” </p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>As I mentioned in the beginning notes, I've included a spoiler here regarding some of the subject matter in this fic. There is no actual character death in this story, but there is a perceived character death that is explained later. </p>
<p>Come say hi! You can find me <a href="https://drowningbydegrees.tumblr.com/">on Tumblr</a> or <a href="https://drowningbydegrees-fanworks.tumblr.com/"> this one</a> if you're only  interested in fanworks.<br/>Sometimes, I also exist on <a href="https://twitter.com/DrownByDegrees">Twitter.</a><br/></p></blockquote></div></div>
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